Port after Stormy Seas
by lye tea
Summary: They are two ships passing by in the night: fated to meet, destined to part. In this game of chess, politics and empires are not the only stakes in place. Balthier/Ashe
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** For some weird reason, Balthier and Ashe remind me of Robert Dudley and Elizabeth I, which reminds me of Edmund Spenser's _The Faerie Queene_, which has prompted this fic. It's sort of a sequel to my other fic, _Nothing Gained If Sought_, but honestly, you don't need to read that one to get what happens here.

* * *

_Be bold, be bold_, and every where _Be bold_,  
That much she muz'd, yet could not construe it  
By any ridling skill, or commune wit.  
At last she spyde at that same roomes upper end,  
Another yron dore, on which was writ,  
_Be not too bold_.

**—_The Faerie Queene_ [Book III, Canto 11]**

**I.**

"You should not be here."

He steps closer (she backs away).

"Leave!"

He can almost touch her (she cringes instinctively).

"I can have you arrested for treason."

He is tempted to test her words (she cannot stop him).

"Is this how you greet long-lost friends, Princess?"

"We are not friends," _not anymore_. "You are an Archadian expatriate, sky pirate, and fugitive of my political allies. Why are you here?"

"Would you believe it if I said I missed you? Or that I am no longer those things, which you decry like petty epithets?"

"I shall not ask you again, Balthier. Why are you here?"

He gives her a small smile. Full of rue and amazement and incomprehension, it quivers on the fine edge of his mouth. Even with her voice flanked by steel and ice, scraping him with her immeasurable calm (damn her indomitable regalness)—he can't help but admire her strength. And envy how good she is at veiling distress.

"I'm here to offer my services," he declares grandly. "But the hour is late and there's much to say. So why don't we resume this conversation in the morning? Good night, Your Majesty."

Incredulous, she watches him disappear, slipping into the long, deep shadows cast by her furniture (slithers into his secret den). He is gone before she can register what actually occurred (never mind sounding the guards). Acrid and pungent, the questions sizzle out in her mouth. She swallows hard.

It's been nearly two years since they last met, since she stupidly thought he had perished in an unholy sea of fire. And though she long discovered his deceit, she has forgiven him for not telling her sooner. And in a pithy, two-line letter, no less. But he's back and just as mad and dashing (absurd and vexing) as ever.

_No_.

He's worse than she remembered.

Unleashing a sharp sigh, Ashe retreats wearily to her bed.

...

Once, when she was young, she saw a man die from blood poisoning. The muscles in his face had contorted, twisting the skin taut and immobile like if he were wearing a pale glass mask. And when she accidentally brushed against his arm, he felt hot. Burning. Tingling. Consumed by a hell seven degrees beyond any she could fathom.

As the seamstress deftly sews in the back of her dress, all Ashe can think of is that dying man. She wonders what are the chances of contracting sepsis from a rusted needle (three to none, given her luck). One puncture into the spine: that's it. She can feel the tip ghosting over her hipbone, gingerly kissing the arc, jolting her with strange stings. If she would press in just a bit more—

The stool suddenly jerks and gasping, Ashe grasps wildly into the air. Desperately, she tries to prevent an unceremonious tumble to the ground. Her knee collides into the cool marble, and miles of brocade thrash like a white-smoked gust. Wincing, she rights herself and doggedly ignores the gloved hand around her waist.

She dismisses the seamstress on the pretense of needing a rest (a respite from choking on silver threads and white gold). In the mid-morning light, outlined by the brilliant desert sun, Balthier seems displaced without his hair tousled and shot by wind. She has missed him though she will never admit.

"I don't know why you insist on torturing yourself with silken prisons. And gods know why _I_ am here joining you in this agony."

Ashe whirls around, renewed by indignation. "You said that we would speak in the morning. Well then, speak. What the hell were you thinking sneaking into my room last night?"

"I wanted to see how you're doing."

"You couldn't have waited until the morning or at least _announced_ yourself? My guards could've killed you."

Balthier circles around her, scrutinizing the lacework. Light and gossamer like a spider web woven from crystals. He fights against the impulse to touch it—_her_. Screaming, the allure licks his palm, but he must remember that the sharpest blades are invisible.

"I wanted to see you, Ashe, not the Queen of Dalmasca. And that is a feat only possible when you are sleeping. I've been observing you since I arrived in Rabanastre a week ago. Constantly, you are surrounded. How does it feel, being suffocated?"

"I don't know what you mean," she answers coldly. "I don't have time for games, Balthier. Either you tell me what you want or I'll have you tossed from the tower."

Laughing, he stops pacing and turns to inspect her instead. She has grown. She's become even more determined (_if that was possible_) and self-assured. She's no longer that throneless girl, sniveling into his shoulder and staining his immaculately starched lapels. For someone not born to rule, she certainly commands great respect.

She's also learned to conceal her vulnerabilities, every last, beautiful shred of them.

And steadily (damn the thing) streams of pride trickle into him. And a drop of remorse for what he badly wants otherwise. Swathed in clouds of pearls and silk, she looks so strong and heartbreaking and worlds away.

It's best that he doesn't forget (not a second time).

"I'm here to give my counsel. My intentions are noble despite your suspicions. I promise not to rob you this time," he adds as an afterthought.

Reluctantly, a smile spreads across her lips. He can still charm the scales off a snake, a princess from despair, and a queen into abandoning her clandestine vows.

"I know of the tension between Dalmasca and Rozzaria," he continues.

She stiffens. "It's good to know that my problems have reached the ears of insouciant sky pirates."

"I'm not here as a thief, I told you. I'm here as part of a diplomatic party on behalf of Archadia, who shares your worries.

"_Larsa_ sent you to babysit _me_?"

"No, Basch did."

"I can handle the situation. I shall not have my sovereignty wrenched from me again."

"I have no doubt you'll do fine, fantastic even. But your seat is precarious, your economy is still recovering, and most importantly, you have yet to cement your hold over the people."

"My people know I would die for them."

Resisting the urge to roll his eyes, Balthier leaps to his feet and walks toward her. She sits ramrod straight in her chair, imperious and bristling. Her anger fuels him too. He wants to violently shake her arms, seize her awake.

"No one questions your love for your country, but neither is this an issue that can be resolved with martyrdom. It's unlikely that Rozzaria will accept a second rejection so magnanimously."

"Rozzaria can exert all the pressure she wants. But I _will_ protect Dalmasca at any cost."

"Then what magnificent occasion will witness you in this dress? A wedding or a funeral?"

...

After the council meeting, a pair of guards escorts him to his rooms in the far east wing of the palace. Where, undoubtedly, he'll have few opportunities for illicit, midnight visits (_clever little princes_).

Spacious yet sparsely furnished, the room seems like it's been uninhabited for years—probably has, come to think. Heaving a ritualistic sigh to mark his discontent, Balthier tosses himself onto the bed. The plush mattress dips low as his body weight jars the loosely curled feathers, sending minute traces of dust hurling skyward.

Your maids have been slacking.  
—Thus he will say.

My maids have more important things to do, like spying on foreign pirates.  
—Such she will respond.

The cathedral bells chime in the distance. Fastidiously, he counts each sonorous clank, noting the slightly different pitches and variations in resonance. Some are shrill and true while others sink and echo, shaking him in the marrow.

Hollow and inexorable, they make a symphony dissonant.

He wonders if Ashe is aware that they are embroiled in this game, this nebulous, truffled tier-cake of lies and deceits. Shrouded and protected by a pleasant guise, making it hard to differentiate player from pawn.


	2. Chapter 2

**II.**

The rip is long and pitiless. Straight down the middle, rough and ugly, the sheet falls into halves. Frowning, the Marquis Ondore rubs the raised vellum while another hand drums along the smooth wood of the queen's desk.

Embossed in gold, the page's edge flirts with the flickering glow of his fading light. He calculates that there's half an hour left at best. Across the table, head slumped over her arms, Ashe emits a strangled snore. Automatically, he drapes a thin coverlet over her shoulders. Although tonight is warm (such is the fate of a city circumscribed by twin oceans of sand) she is prone to colds.

Ever since childhood. Ever since she first stumbled into his office and haughtily proclaimed that she will grow wings and fly from Bhujerba, absconding with his dog. She didn't make it past the palace gates.

She's grown significantly taller and bolder—and he couldn't be prouder. Quickly, he glances over. Satisfied that she's drifted back to sleep, he picks up the pen once more and strikes through the entire second paragraph.

The Rozzarians will not be pleased, but he isn't here to titillate sanguinity among sovereign hearts. Ashe is too inexperienced to tumble into bed with yowling, feral cats. So he'll go in her stead and exit with adroit, avuncular grace.

She prefers diplomacy; he favors the earnest approach. Much simpler to declaw the animals and sever their tails. Only then, will they never be able to jump again.

He signals for the attendant. "Bring me another lamp. This one is obviously defunct."

...

Bordering the western outskirts of Rabanastre is an inn eclipsed by gleaming mansions and hazy mountains. Tiny and inconspicuous, it quivers in the midday sun while the stark heat cripples the stale air.

Close to the Aerodrome but tucked away, there's leverage room for privacy. Twice a week, the supply merchants arrive, bearing exotic spices and toxic herbs. And airships sweep through day and night, sometimes low enough to nearly blight the staggering boarders and panic-flung carts.

A family of moogles runs the guesthouse. The beds are comfortable and the food is decent (the owners are known to be discreet).

Scowling into the cup, Fran declines the server's offer of more wine. She's never liked the stuff (can't understand why humes ardently yearn for such a vile taste). Balthier is no exception. On innumerable nights, she has scooped him up and carried his disheveled, leaden body to bed. And never once did he verbalize gratitude.

_We're partners, Fran. We'd die for each other. _

Almost did.

She tracks all the times when he saved her as well, from onslaughts of Mist to mortifying skirmishes with hume culture. Like a knight he is. A knight errant. How peculiar their entire situation stands, how devastating and risible and so rightfully _them_.

"What is wrong?" Fran asks in her odd, modulated tone. Not quite a murmur nor fully pronounced. Whereas others exhale, she inhales as she speaks (releasing a draft of summer-tickled leaves).

Penelo grips tightly onto the thick sides of her stool. The veins in her dainty hands rise in revolt. Her fingertips are callused from tug-of-wars with machines. In the desert plains, moratoriums do not exist. But this hot, hot mess is her home, and she'll be all right—if she stays in the shade.

"Nothing. I'm just thinking about Vaan."

"You must trust him. He is your partner."

"But he's never been gone this long!"

"And it won't be the last. Once, Balthier left for a month. I worried that he might've been killed. At least Vaan left you a note and location points. He has many friends in Archades. I am sure he is fine."

"Fran, be honest, are circumstances really that bad?"

"I am not familiar with the intricacies of hume politics, but I do not think it's time to fret. Not yet. Your queen will find a solution. She is stronger than she looks."

Although her voice is firm, a shroud of doubt sidles along the back of her mind. Skin crawling, she braces for the mounting tension (implosion). When people build castles in the sky, absent of buttresses or phenomena, they will inevitably crash.

Plummet and splinter leagues below—

Into earthen tides, whence none can return.

...

His mother's villa sits half a day's journey from Archades proper. On days when he is sickened by endless circle-talks and straw-man negotiations, Larsa retreats behind the estate's white walls and shallow pools.

There are fruit trees in every courtyard, and the ones in the southern wing are especially delicious late in summer. Here, he allows himself a few moments of solitude, dreaming of swinging hammocks and cooling winds. It is quiet here, and he feels at peace.

Vigilant, Basch looms behind him (a rooted fortress resilient to guns and gods alike). Slowly, Larsa crumbles the piece of paper and reaches for another. He chews on the tip of his pen and madly searches for the appropriate words.

"Basch, have you received word from Balthier?"

"Not yet, Your Majesty. Perhaps it was rash of me to suggest him."

"Nonsense. Balthier has proven himself more than capable. It is not his loyalty or dedication I question. It's his work ethic. He allots far too much devotion to megrims."

"Does Your Majesty fear he will fail?"

"On the contrary. Once Balthier targets a prize, he will not cease pursuit until it's obtained. Presently, he desires nothing more than seeing the Rozzarian prince falter. Besides, Fran is there to prevent unforeseen disasters."

"If I may ask, what is Your Majesty's plan?"

Larsa pauses. If Archadia enters the stadium too early, he loses his vantage point. But if Archadia hesitates (moaning and malingering) the Rozarrian emperor will strike nonetheless. And gloat over having discovered a loose hinge in the gates. Hard and relentless, he will dispatch his emissaries like bolts of pollen to desolate wheat fields.

Archadia is richer, but Rozarria has more people (more princes).

Archadia has only him.

"I shall expedite the outstanding treaties. In the meantime, you will prepare for our departure in a week. Do not inform Balthier. I am curious how stunned he will be."

...

Keen and shrewd, Ondore listens to an update on the progress of the impending imperial arrival from the north. Aside from the queen and a few ministers, the news has not been divulged.

So Larsa Solidor is desperate enough to directly engage in battle.

He will come here first before requesting an audience with Ashe to solidify an unofficial alliance (_an understanding, if you will_). It's the prudent approach (it's what _he _would do). And Archadia has the most at stake.

"In a week, sir."

Nodding, Ondore stirs his tea. He likes this particular variety because unlike its cousin strains, it is bitter when hot or cold. In its lukewarm phase, it turns sweet and clear. But he does not drink it for the taste; he drinks because it reminds him not to stray.

Like the tea, reality is cruel and rancorous at its extremes.

...

Rains rarely appear during the hot, relentless summer months in Rabanastre. Their advent is rapid and unpredictable, galvanizing the people to flee behind lattice windows and duck under awnings. For Ashe, they bring her the halcyon days.

Shrugging into a light robe, she pushes open the heavy doors of the library's balcony. Annoyed, she finds an occupant already lounging in her chair. The sight scarcely generates a surprise—she's been expecting him, thinking he will (of course) seek out sanctuary from the storms.

Balthier doesn't weather the ravages of politics well.

"Ah, Princess, care to join me?" he asks, not rising from his perch.

She sits down across from him. Still garbed in full court regalia (bandaged with ruffles and gold and that ridiculous jabot) he makes her feel small and dangerously unfit. Unmanned (unseated). Subconsciously, she stretches her spine, trying to create the illusion of height and eminence.

And falls by a pitiable one and half head short.

"Where did you go tonight?"

"What, did you miss me?"

"Uncle Halim inquired about you. He would like your assistance in arranging a meeting with the other Archadian delegates."

"Sorry but as I said, I'm not here to pay courtship to your crown. I have neither allegiance to Archadia nor Dalmasca."

"I do not understand you. First, you offer me counsel—which I did not invite—yet now you denounce any part in governments."

"I'm here to help, Princess. I swear it."

"Really," she replies, doubt tinting her tongue. "And whom might that be?"

"You."

_(There's never been anyone else._)

Ashe parts her mouth in blank amazement. But he's not playing, feigning. His honesty shocks her like the whorls of lightning and crimson thunder singing the night. And another realization slams deeper into her, imparting grotesque blisters in its wake.

Despite what they've been through, all that he's done for her, she knows so little about him.

And he's not a puzzle she absolutely wants to solve.

_—Can possibly be done._


	3. Chapter 3

**III.**

If he were a bit faster—a bit bolder—he could escape. He could scale up these walls (pitiful, squalid excuses for defense) and ricochet gutter to window to marble. Then, down a long, spacious hallway rests his award.

_If only he were a bit faster—_

"Vaan."

Gravelly and strident, Basch's voice fishes him out of the reverie like the breath of a canon tickling a waterfowl. Unceremoniously, Vaan run straight into Basch's stomach. As a further demonstration of his humiliation, a pair of strong hands cinches his waist and levels him upright.

"Vaan," _and so commences the rebuke_, "If you're thinking of stealing from his majesty, I must caution you to reconsider. The dungeons of Archadia are especially hostile."

"I wasn't thinking of robbing Lar-his majesty. I just wanted to explore the palace. There are too many people during the day. Makes it hard to appreciate the architecture."

"The architecture," Basch repeats, unfazed.

"Yeah. Anyway, what're you doing here, Basch?"

"His majesty sent me to retrieve something from the treasury, a gift for Queen Ashelia. Come, I shall escort you back."

_So he's not the only one hoping to entice Ashe_.

Amused, Vaan follows suit (there's always another night to steal).

...

Al-Cid receives the death of his eldest brother with aplomb (had expected it).

The (former) Archduke of Rosaria suffered a penchant for gambling, and it was befitting—_righteous_—that he perished in the throes of a miscalculated affray.

Father is indubitably mourning and Mother, well, that is difficult to gauge. This is the fourth child she's lost; she's probably immune to sorrow by now. (His second sister had been her favorite.)

Sequestered in Rabanastre, he is exempt from the hysterics of family and dynastic antics. There certainly are benefits to being the fifth son and furthest away from the throne. Sometimes, he thinks his bloodline is cursed, how rampant and barbarously his siblings seem to die. And wonders when his time will be.

Destined to doom, disposable and ephemeral. Flicked through like the pages of a banal book.

"Convey my condolences to the Emperor and Empress."

Issuing a bow, the messenger vanishes behind the hidden door, leaving Al-Cid to reassess his predicament. Realistically, he supposes he should double his efforts to woo her majesty. Ideally, he'd like to prolong the fun, goading and galling until she is stripped of her exalted aegis.

But he also likes to win.

He will arrange an audience with the queen this afternoon. Unbuttoning the pearl buttons of his shirt, he evaluates the merits of gold-tipped shoes and emerald feathers.

...

Al-Cid Margrace does not know that he knows of the Archduke's death. Larsa Solidor does not know that he knows what Basch fon Ronsenburg has been plotting. Balthier (_Ffamran_, he notes with disgust) does not know that he knows what the pirate desires and will never attain.

Woven between the billowing canopies and screened pavilions of the Dalmascan palace, his omniscience buries deep and germinates, supplanting spies and instigating agitation. He sprinkles a little here and some more there and soon, his seeds will flourish and disperse and so the cycle goes.

Ashe would not approve of his methods, but it's in her interest that he acts. And act he must before the hour is dire and they're forced to recede.

Penning a note to the queen, the Marquis Ondore remonstrates with her her to postpone the meeting with Al-Cid until tomorrow evening.

By then, the Archadian fleet will have docked (ushering in another doll for his altarpiece).

...

His knuckles have turned a bluish white, so tight and fierce and unforgiving does he hold onto the railing.

It's been two years since he's returned to the closest place he has for a homeland. And he feels like a traitor, a deplorable ingrate hell-bent on greed and self-interest. Wrapped underneath a dozen blankets, Larsa sleeps soundly in his lush suite.

But Basch is a soldier and soldiers never rest. Not when there's a war brewing on the horizon and he marching toward the inferno.

Scanning the dim sky, he estimates the time. In less than an hour, they will sweep into Dalmascan clouds.

And there she will be—_his princess_—

Now queen.

Below in the belly of the ship, the engines roar and hiss, lurching them forward. He counters his stance against the howling iciness.

...

Ashe scratches at the itchy ruffles of her collar, accidentally drawing blood. Insects are a perpetual problem in Rabanastre, and the provisional coolness from the rains is a double-edged sword, serving alternatively as a breeding paradise for the pests. The heavy silks and ornate embroidering of her clothes worsen her discomfort.

When she is more secure in power and persuasion, she will abolish all sartorial nonsense (beginning with ribbed lacing).

Contorting her arms behind her, she struggles to fasten the gown. Her fingers work fast, but there seems to be no cessation of fabric pools and button streams. Just a few more and then the ribbons…

"Are you _sure_ you don't require any assistance?"

She bites back a scream. Reclining upon the velvet cushions, Balthier looks more at ease on her settee than she does. As if poised for a portrait with one leg swung casually over the other, his booted foot tapping against the gilt wood.

"Must you always appear at the most inconvenient moments?"

"I like to think of it as seizing the opportunity. You offer an exquisite view. Not many are privy to royalty half-garbed."

Frowning, Ashe reverts her attention to the bodice and tries in vain to finish dressing. These last three buttons will be her undoing. Resigned, she discards her pride and concedes to his help. But she will not welcome it (will not fall prey to his wiles).

Instantly, he is by her side, nimble hands tickling down her back. He is in no hurry to complete the task (all too delighted in torturing her).

Taking a step back, Balthier inspects his accomplishment. "Perhaps you should've gone with the green one instead."

Ashe scowls. "If I wanted your fashion advice, I would've asked for it. What is it that you want? I'm late for a meeting."

"You are a coward to agree and a fool if you go."

"I haven't agreed to anything other than opening a negotiation. That's what monarchs do, Balthier. We talk."

He raises a brow. "All talks lead somewhere. You're fueled by stupid desperation—an imaginary one, at that."

"Everything I do is for the best of my country. No nation can survive without alliances. Would you have Dalmasca ravaged by internal strife, our efforts wasted, _your_ life nearly forfeited for nothing?"

"You're sacrificing too much."

"_Every_ decision has sacrifices. I can only mitigate their consequences."

"Then I can only accompany you into the abyss."

Solemn and portentous, he drops to his knee.

Aghast, she inches to the left (prays that he isn't attempting what she fears he'll do). _Gods, Balthier, don't be an idiot._

Smirking, he severs a loose thread from the hem of her skirt and blows it away. Briefly, it dances in midair, spiraling with the rays of sun, before landing on the ground—inert, dead.

...

Normally, Fran restricts her movements to Lowtown whenever they are in Rabanastre. She is too tall, too _exotic_, and distinction attracts unnecessary hazards. Typically, Balthier handles purchasing supplies and cajoling out information while she embarks on nightly reconnaissance for their next objective. She is quieter, stealthier, and more adept in combat.

But today, she is alone. And she'll have to do his work as well. And take his share of the loot as compensation.

Grumbling a curse, she dusts a wayward spray of ash off her shins. Although the economy is improving, the damages from the war still permeate the city. Squinting, she deduces that this must be the place. Nothing could diminish the briny odor of sweat from Archadian Judges and Chocobo musk.

She steps inside, stooping under the low-hung door, and bypasses the drunken mess sprawled over a spindly bench. Curious, she questions how the thin legs can support his weight. On cue, a groan answers and the man rolls onto the dirtied floor.

The tavern is dark and smoky with a bar at the far end and broken chairs and tables distributed in no precise order. Wrinkling her nose, she surveys the room. Rundown and seedy but she's seen worse (like that place in Balfonheim when she extracted a reluctant Balthier from an unfolding brawl).

Selecting a seat in the corner, barricaded on both sides by soldiers, Fran settles in. This could take a while. However, judging from the slurred state of their speech, at least she's guaranteed something interesting.

_How now our—_

Start: go.

...

As per usual, Ondore escorts her to dinner, his cane making soft thumps on the carpeted stairs. And _as per usual_ (she eyes him warily) he is silently solicitous, gracious and stony.

But lying just underneath his calm surface, she senses something is wrong (his expression is a shade too pale and his grip fractionally tighter). Rigid he stands, sullen and tense. His pupils meander from ceiling trimming to polished statues to clinking crystal glasses. Fidgety and flustered like the rapid adjustment of binoculars for an invisible enemy.

"What's the matter, Uncle?"

"Oh, nothing, my dear. Simply lost lost my train of thought. Shall we?"

He pats her hand, his rough, weathered skin devoid of its familiar warmth. Her heart palpitates erratically, the beats sinking and rising with each step downward. She counts three between each footfall: three frenzied, whirring, jarring mutilated cries.

"Uncle, are you sure that—"

Ondore cuts her off with a stiff, barely perceptible shake of his head. Immediately, she heeds his warning and sews on a smile.

"Ah, your grace, I hope you are enjoying the party?"

Al-Cid responds amicably, "Yes, thank you. Very entertaining, very _enlightening_. I'm sorry to hear of your assistant's accident, my lord. Who would've anticipated slippery slopes?"

"Indeed who."

Al-Cid does not break his smile. Maintaining his glance on the marquis, he bows low before Ashe and grazes her chaffed knuckles with his lips. He lingers a second too long (daring Ondore to retaliate).


	4. Chapter 4

**IV.**

The stench of putrefaction is an interesting mixture: a cross between rank abomination and sweetly perfumed oxygen. As the body decays, the odor intensifies, burrowing into clothing and skin. The site where the living and the dead designate as their battlefield. Eventually, it becomes impossible to distinguish the source.

There is only the pervasive tincture of death.

Holding his breath, Ondore nudges the body with his boot. The man is so obviously dead that ascertaining such superfluous fact is hilarious. And so he laughs. A rumbling, nervous chuckle threatening to bolt from his chest.

"How long?"

The doctor pinches the skin, testing for elasticity. "Three hours at the most. The stiffness has yet to set in."

"After you are done, dispose of the body—discreetly."

And now to frolic and rendezvous with Rozarria (fire and run the gauntlet).

How odd; he should feel more annoyed.

...

It's merely apropos that he sends a corpse in return. He'll wait until the body festers a little bit (bit by bit the flesh disintegrates). Until it's jaundiced and puce, puckered and soured. The best of the best for the prince.

...

There is something strange.

Amiss.

Askew.

Ashe passes glances from one to the other while demurely sipping her tea. Uncle jabs a tiny silver fork into a spiced cake and eats it whole, licking off a wayward splotch of cream. Al-Cid takes a cake as well (mimicked chivalric face) and bites into it slowly.

Stupid.

She deduced.

They've both gone stupid.

She clears her throat. "Emperor Larsa, do you find the new version of the trade agreement amenable to Archadia's interests?"

"Yes, madam. Everything seems in order. And have you given any further thought to our _other_ discussion?"

"Not yet. I beg that you give me more time."

"Of course. I have all the time I need."

Larsa smiles. Serene and placid like the reflection of an autumn lake (marred with dustings of mottled leaves). Like it were the two of them, isolated and impervious.

Al-Cid does not know that he's already lost—was never a viable contender in the first place.

But for now, he will lie down and lay the arms and anticipate the closing of webs and hanging of stately heads. House Solidor does not lose.

...

Because Fran has an aversion to palaces (unless to purloin) they meet at The Sandsea. Here, she can study posts for new hunts while he orders a merry round of beer.

Because Fran despises alcohol (sensitive nose, whatnot) he is obliged to drink her portion. And give her a splendid opportunity to inundate him with cool contempt.

"I have to say, I am not fond of your method of intelligence gathering," she mutters.

"I only ask, for I'm at my wits' end. And you, dear Fran, have done a marvelous job. Perhaps I should pass on the leading role to you?"

"Your ego wouldn't survive such a blow. How are things in the palace?"

"The marquis is being troublesome. His clever orchestrations have rendered it impossible for me to be near the queen publically. I'm soundly barred from any negotiation more critical than flower imports."

"He does not trust you. You should've been more careful when you snooped in his office."

"That was months ago! Besides, I would never leave a trace. And we haven't been back to Bhujerba since. There's nothing for him to connect us to the incident."

"You were careless. Ondore has the queen's ears and her heart. Not something you can easily steal away."

"Ondore manipulates her to suit his own will," he snarls.

Unfazed, Fran snatches an orange from the top of the bowl. She peels the fruit swiftly, unraveling the skin into a single ribbon.

When he first enlisted her as his partner on the _Strahl_, he was captivated by the maneuver and asked why she peeled it that way. Because it's easier to clean up, she responded. The less the parts, the smaller the mess.

If one is skilled enough.

"Balthier, I think you're approaching this all wrong. It's not the marquis whom you should monitor."

"Don't tell me you've also been beguiled by that wizened viper. He has several horrible tricks up his sleeve. I've simply yet to uncover them."

"In the meantime, you pave a path for the Rozarrian to invade."

"A gambit I'm willing to take."

...

By the end of his fourth day in Rabanastre, Basch's routine has stagnated:

In the mornings, he rises against the brittle sun and charges up seven hills. Heaving and groaning, straining from the iron weights sliding down his back. He persists. Does not falter or waver (shivering through the vestigial ripples of night). He must train and stay strong for promises forged by ghosts.

Afterwards, he takes breakfast with either Larsa or Ashe and occasionally both. He's no longer masquerading as a dead man and has interred the title of Judge Magister eternally to rest. Now, he is humbly Basch, Adviser to the Emperor of Archadia.

On the days he is spared from courtly rites, he colludes with Balthier. Pacing around, quarantined in his apartments, Basch uncorks his vexations and watches them burst like effusive, boiling springs through an inverted funnel.

"Is it seditious to serve two masters at once? Or merely recreant?"

"I am no longer beholden by fealty to any crown. I will honor my word and gladly protect them with my life."

Grinning slyly, Balthier pauses his momentous task (rifling through velvet coats requires a concentrated finesse). He joins his host, sagging into the plump damask chair.

Basch perpetually looks so serious, so pensive, so bloody full of martyrdom and altruistic dreams.

Impenetrable, like the dungeons of Nalbina.

—_Or so they said_.

"Ah, what unparalleled gallantry! Nobly abiding your brother's last behest. Nobly tending to a foreign queen because…of course. It's the honorable thing to do."

"You wouldn't understand. There's no honor among thieves."

"That's right. Why don't you elucidate for me just how _honorable_ your love for her is?"

...

_Which is the lesser of two evils?_

...

Sleep eludes her that night, tonight, of all nights. A universe of jumbled and fragmented needs and desires wage war. She is yanked on all sides, no anchor around. This—that—_choose_.

_Damn it, Ashelia, is it really that hard? _

(Bellicose is the heart.)

No route to take. No more droning parties and ceremonies and lofty sacrifices. She is so tired of waiting for decisions to surface, plump and juicy, ready for the picking. Duties must be fulfilled, bloodlines and bloodless pacts.

Enough. Done.

(Weak is the heart.)

She walks to the window and steps through.

_Free, at last_.


	5. Chapter 5

**V.**

It doesn't matter that Ashe is now (officially) Her Majesty or that she's a good friend (when the occasion permits).

At this rate, he'll commit regicide—_tyrannicide_.

Kicking past another rat, Vaan treks down the sluice. Beside him, Penelo shivers as a chill breeze hits them from the north entrance. He squeezes her hand in assurance, and they turn the corner. Ashe is waiting for them at maze's end.

Never had he imagined they'd be traipsing around Garamsythe again. Especially not wearing the royal insignia of Dalmasca (stitched neatly on his sleeve cuffs).

"How much further?" Penelo asks.

"Not much, I think."

They encounter another corner. Right, then left, then another left.

"Is that her?" Penelo points to a bright figure on the ledge.

Squinting his eyes, he waves eagerly. "Yeah. Hey, Ashe!"

She jumps. A flood of memories pour over him, and he rushes toward her, to catch her. But she lands gracefully on her feet (intact) and chuckles.

"We've come a long way since that. Hello, Penelo. Nice shirt, Vann. Is it new?"

He blushes. "Courtesy of Your Majesty. Why're we meeting here? How did you even get out of the palace?"

"I snuck out. I needed a place for us to meet without disturbance. Somewhere safe."

"So you chose the sewers."

"And for sentimental reasons."

Penelo giggles. Their location seems bizarrely justified. A mysterious midnight meeting and stately intrigues. She's breathless with excitement. But then, noticing the smidges of soot and sweat-tracks on Ashe's cheeks, Penelo feels an uneasiness squirming up her legs. "Something bad has happened."

Ashe nods, an ominous jerk of her head. "Larsa Solidor has proposed marriage to me. I was not prepared for this to…to happen so soon. Vaan, what have you learned in Archades?"

"Not much. I didn't even see Larsa. He was traveling, and I heard from some servants that he usually takes residence in some other estate. Basch wouldn't tell me much either, but he was concerned about you."

"I'm afraid Basch won't be able to help me this time. He urged me to seriously consider Larsa's proposal."

"You can't really be thinking of marrying Larsa!" Penelo interjects.

"Don't worry, I won't. Larsa doesn't want to anymore than I do, but he will if he believes it's the only way to prevent Rozarria from succeeding. I wish he had consulted me earlier."

Perplexed, Vaan asks, "Why can't you just tell him no?"

"Because then I'll be expected to accept Al-Cid Margrace's offer instead. Penelo, I need you to cast a spell. Something that will cause a violent but curable illness. The more hideous and prolonged the better."

"Are you sure? Won't that just be delaying the unavoidable?"

"Only until I figure out a solution."

Queasy, Penelo siphons the Magick from her core. It tingles as it courses through veins, scalding her blood. She delivers the incantation (abrupt, pithy gestures). The heat transfers over, whimpering out a hiss. Ashe gasps and falls, trembling, to her knees.

...

She has not looked this pale since the encounter with his father in the Pharos. (He has not reacted this alarmingly since then.) Blue, nubilous bruises gnaw the thin skin under her lashes, spanning like dusky wings over her cheekbones. Collarbones protruding, lips drained and marbleized. Finely carved, she vanishes steadily behind an obelisk of pillows.

Her eyes snap shut, prohibiting him entrance (damn his inquiries). Rage consumes him. Did she really think him this stupid? That he wouldn't know—couldn't sniff out his own handiwork?

"Fran taught Penelo that spell," Balthier says crisply (always was sore after losing). "Perhaps taught her _too_ well. It could've killed you."

"Nonsense. I trust Penelo's abilities."

"If you wanted to cry off, you should've enlisted me instead. I would've employed a method involving significantly less agony."

"And what would that be?"

"I'd have stolen you again."

She grins. He flinches (that movement appears painful). And as he assumed, the laugh turns into a cough. He examines the handkerchief after her fit: five spots of blood. Vibrant, almost gaudy, they mock him viciously.

Adamant, he continues, "I'd have absconded with you to the edge of the world, where not even Basch dares to venture. Do you have so little faith in me?"

"You know that's not true. It's your flair for the dramatic with which I find fault. Despite your protests, you _are_ here as part of a diplomatic party. And you _are_ a member of the Archadian nobility. You have obligations, Balthier," _as do I_.

"How many times must I tell you? None of that matters, Princess."

He inches closer (her breath catches—) and closer (—ceases altogether) and cups her face. His hands are warm, solid. Coarse and more wind-braised than the Cerobi pines. She presses against his palm, seeking solace, imprinting this moment in an entrenched cache.

"I better go," he says softly. "Stay strong, would you? A leading man needs a living damsel to save."

Ashe mumbles an incoherent insult, but he's already gone. His steps coincide with the peals of the cathedral bells.

_I'm no one's damsel, no one's princess._

Exhausted, she drifts to sleep.

(No ringing plagues her in dreams.)

...

Al-Cid is less attentive tonight as he dresses for dinner. The queen is ill—suddenly too. And gravely so (rumor travels fast). Despite his counsel's beseeching howling, he has not (yet) formally placed a second bid in marriage. And rightly done, come to think.

Larsa Solior's proposal was left ambiguously (incontestably) denied. House Margrace will not suffer a similar failure. He moves to secure. If all means equal an end, why not pick the best?

Her Parliament is becoming restless, apprehensive. They want her married and an heir declared. One timid member (miserable, gutless fool) is enough to topple the entire scheme.

_Wherever the cards may fall, let them cast their lots. For all good things come to those who wait._

It's a race of endurance, and he endures afflictions better than anyone.

...

Ondore disapproves of malingering, but given her choices (what few there are) he does not begrudge her ruse. She's astute, resilient though rash. Youth, that's the curse, the bane of all monarchies and root of successional agues.

So, the responsibility shifts to him to salvage gems from debris.

"She will _not_ marry Larsa Solidor."

"Really? Because you forbid it?"

Balancing the book in his hand, Balthier estimates he could have the marquis unconscious in seconds. One for the actual motion, two for velocity (the inconstancies of speed) and three for the bastard's fatal expression. Priceless.

He slides the leather volume into its rightful niche and says with conviction, "No, because she's not a witless puppet with strings looped around your gluttonous fingers."

Unperturbed, Ondore pours two cups of tea. "Do you know what happens to monarchs without heirs apparent?" He savors the taste. "They invite deposition. Do you know why the Dalmascan throne touts unbroken lineage? Ashe rules by virtue of being the last true descendant of the Dynast-King."

"If she accepts Archadia, then Rozarria will interpret that as an affront."

"The same will happen if she allies with Rozarria. No victory can be absolute. Al-Cid Margrace is merely one of many princes—the lastborn, at that."

"But she will lose sovereignty if she marries Larsa. She will surrender exactly what she has fought to avert; Dalmasca will be absorbed by the Empire."

"And her children will reign as _emperors_."

Mad. The marquis—all of them. Even her (she will die before allowing her beloved country to be torn asunder by war again).

Aghast, Balthier sits speechless as Ondore drinks his tea, summoning a poison he could effortlessly tip. A satin noose or tainted dagger: a powerful will makes the man.

_One, two, three…_


End file.
